


Ignorance of Instinct

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying Sherlock Holmes, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Hatred, two boys who don't know how to communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 15:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15584859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes chooses to ignore his instincts thrice, and once he does not.





	Ignorance of Instinct

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Игнорирование инстинктов](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949445) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



Instinct is always to be noted, for it is a mind processing many details as a whole.  
Often instinct is correct, though it is not always reliable. For example, instinct can often be clouded by preconceived ideas of a person or situation based off of knowledge already obtained.  
This is why Sherlock Holmes rarely followed _solely_ his instincts.  
Though he very well never _ignored_ them, human error told him his mind, no matter how brilliant, was bound to make mistakes.  
This is why, the first time he wanted to, he did not follow his instinct to kiss John Watson.  
It was a spring evening, early on in their friendship, and they had just finished a case and were walking down the street in search of a cab.  
“Amazing work,” Watson had said, still a bit breathless from the chase. “The way you figured out it was the brother by the gardening glove! Fantastic.”  
Holmes had smiled. Praise had never affected him before Watson, but somehow he made it all the more valuable.  
“Thank you, doctor. I must say, you were quite remarkable as well. Your assessment of the death was spot on. You had the time of death pinned nearly to the minute.”  
Watson blushed.  
“Thank you.”  
They'd walked in silence for a bit after that, both flushed and hearts swelling. Holmes had looked at him, and instinct had kicked in, and he'd very nearly given in.  
But he stopped to think.  
What a grand error thinking can be at times. Muddling with instinct and emotion to create chaos.  
Thinking would be the death of him.  
  
The second time Sherlock Holmes ignored his instincts, it very nearly got them killed.  
They were in the heat of the moment, chasing Robert Peterson through Hyde Park in the darkness. The killer jumped over a bush easily, and they pursued him close behind, hearts pumping and breath quick, when a shot rang out in the darkness.  
Holmes's first instinct was to pull put his revolver and shoot at Peterson, but, _wait, he may not be the gunman._  
Luckily, Watson was quicker.  
Peterson had spun around and was only able to shoot two more bullets (one which grazed Holmes's arm) before Watson had shot him in the leg and he fell backwards into Artemis Fountain.  
Holmes's, not quite feeling the wound yet, ran to pull him out sputtering before he drowned. “There, you bastard,” he spat as the killer coughed up water.  
“Holmes, your arm!”  
He looked down and was suddenly aware of the blood dribbling down his shirt sleeve. The adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel the sting.  
“Damn, where's Lestrade?”  
“He should be close behind, by God, sit down and let me look at the wound!” Watson pushed him down by shoulders and tore the sleeve of his shirt, looking for fragments of metal. He sighed in relief. “There are no shards, you should be alright. Here.” He finished tearing the sleeve, then bound the wound tightly to avoid blood loss. Holmes could hear Scotland Yard in the distance, could smell the water from the fountain mingling with the roses nearby, and he could see Watson's face, flushed and concerned.  
And he should've done it, right then.  
But Lestrade was so close by, and policemen would be upon them in a minute, and if he did such a thing, both he and Watson would be dragged away just like the murderer they sat next to.  
  
  
The third time Sherlock Holmes ignored his instincts, he almost lost his Watson.  
It was a chilly December evening, and he had just returned to Baker Street after three arduous years deconstructing Professor Moriarty's infamous network.  
It was in those three years he resolved he would never miss a chance at loving Watson again, for in those moments when he feared death was close upon him, his thought was always of his doctor's face, bright and curious and unabashedly admiring.  
He planned to do it that night, finally tell him he loved him and always would, tell him he understood if he was disgusted but he valued their friendship above all else. Ask him, if he need do so, not to turn him over to the police.  
But that night, Watson looked somberly at the fire, clearly in a morose and thoughtful mood.  
“What ails you, dear friend?” Holmes said softly, observing the look in his eyes. Watson started, apparently not having noticed the presence of the detective.  
“Oh, it is nothing,” he sighed, standing up. “I think I'll go to bed.”  
“Watson, wait.” Holmes leaped up and grabbed his sleeve, and Watson looked at him, startled. His eyes were red-rimmed, and all the words in Holmes's throat disappeared when he saw the acute distress on his friend's face.  
“Do tell me what's the matter,” he said quietly.  
“Mary. She died one year ago today,” he replied.  
“Oh my dear Watson—”  
But he was gone in a second.  


It was three days later which, for the first time in many years, Sherlock Holmes followed his instincts. Watson had been in sober moods for the past few days, but today he seemed brighter.  
Holmes sat on his armchair, eyes closed, hands gripping the armrests. He knew there could potentially be dire outcomes to the conversation he was about to have.  
But he needed to have it.  
Watson was humming quietly, having just finished breakfast, and was about to sit with the paper when he noticed his friend's apparent distress.  
“Holmes? Are you quite alright?”  
Holmes let out a shuddering breath and looked at him.  
“Watson, have you heard, in your medical experience, of. . .inverts?”  
Watson looked at him in surprise.  
“Why, I can't say I've ever had a patient with such a. . .condition, if you can call it so. But I know of them, yes.”  
“And your opinion of these fellows?”  
He held his breath. Watson's brow was furled.  
“I am not one to tamper in other mens' private affairs, and I have never been quite religious, as you know. Overall, I certainly don't think they're hurting anyone, and the hubbub over them as of late is ridiculous.”  
He sighed. At least Watson would not be disgusted with him, then. Maybe even have the grace to remain at 221b.  
The doctor knelt in front of him, taking him by surprise, and grabbed both of his hands in his.  
“My dear friend, what is it that is troubling you so? You're shaking.”  
He was. He grappled for control over his body, but couldn't stop the tremors in his hands. He had never once been so affected in his life.  
Watson was looking at him with all the tenderness and concern he'd come to expect from his dearest and most trusted companion.  
_My Watson is so terribly kind,_ he thought, _Would he really turn away from me?_  
There was a lump in his throat, but he forced it down, making himself look into Watson's eyes.  
“I am. . .I am one such man,” he said whispered, and when Watson shifted, he raised his arm in defense. Immediately, a look of pure hurt and shock crossed the doctor's face.  
“Do you honestly believe I would ever raise my hand against you?” he said softly. “Holmes, look at me.”  
Cautiously, he lowered his arm. He felt like a child, not knowing what reaction to expect. He often felt like that, when he talked to people.  
“Did you really believe your own human nature would cause me the urge to hurt you? As I just told you, I have no personal qualms about. . .men of such a nature. Especially not one who has proven to be so great a man.”  
“That is not the worst of it,” Holmes said quietly. “I-I have denied romantic feelings most of my life, as, for obvious reasons, I believed requited love, even in secrecy, was impossible.” He swallowed, but his friend just watched him. “But. . .I. . .could not help but develop. . .feelings, for you.” He paused a long, terrible pause, closing his eyes. But Watson just squeezed his hand, urging him to finish. “I—I understand if you want me to leave and never see me again, however, I wish that we—we can remain friends, once I tell you that I—I passionately admire and love you.”  
Another pause, longer, more terrible than the last. But at the end, a soft voice;  
“Oh _Sherlock_ , you didn't know?”  
It was at this that he came completely undone, tears streaming down his face like they hadn't since he was a small boy, shaking all over as John pulled him in.  
“You didn't know?” he repeated, still holding him tightly. “I—I thought, you had deduced it, by now, and that you simply chose to ignore it. I don't know quite when it happened, or why, but at some point in the many years I have had the pleasure of being your friend and partner, I realized I had fallen in love past any point of return.”  
“And—and then you were dead, and I thought it was the end of me, and then Mary died . . .and of course I loved Mary, just never like I loved you. . . .”  
He stroked the detective's back soothingly, listening to the quiet sobs for a moment before continuing;  
“Then you came back, and I promised myself I would never do anything that may make you leave. . .but I've wanted to tell you for so long. . .”  
“ _John_. _John_.”  
“Right here, love.”  
And for the first time of many, Sherlock Holmes followed his instinct to kiss John Watson.

 


End file.
